It breaks my heart to see these young, really talented bands

Host: The city night was awash with neon light and echoes of guitars — not from radios, not from stadiums, but from basement bars where old amplifiers hummed and new dreams struggled to tune themselves. The air smelled of beer, rain, and electricity — the scent of rebellion, recycled and tamed.

In one such bar, the kind that used to be alive with noise and smoke and the promise of revolution, Jack and Jeeny sat at a corner booth. The walls were plastered with torn posters — The Clash, The Alarm, Sex Pistols, Nirvana — ghosts of eras when noise meant resistance, not playlists.

Above their heads, a small stage waited — empty but expectant, its lone microphone gleaming faintly under a broken spotlight.

Between them, a quote printed on a bar napkin — half-wet from spilled whiskey — read:

“It breaks my heart to see these young, really talented bands getting chewed up into the system. I remember a time if you'd signed to a major label it was such a sell out! But now... unless you've signed to a big label, you're a failure now.”
— Mike Peters

Jack’s fingers traced the edge of the napkin like a scar he’d forgotten was there.

Jack: (low, reflective) “Mike Peters knew what he was talking about. Back then, you fought to stay independent — now you fight just to be noticed. Selling out isn’t betrayal anymore; it’s survival.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Or surrender. Depends on how you define it.”

Host: The bar lights dimmed as a cover band finished their set — their last note dying in the stale air. A few scattered claps, polite but hollow, drifted through the space. The bartender turned down the soundboard, and the silence that followed felt louder than the music ever had.

Jack: “See that? They’ll post this gig online tomorrow — fifty likes, twenty heart emojis, maybe one record label scout pretending to care. The machine doesn’t need to silence rebellion anymore; it just buries it under hashtags.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “But isn’t that what every system does? Co-opts the wild until it feels safe? Punk became vintage, rock became nostalgia. Even protest songs get brand sponsors now.”

Jack: “Yeah. Revolution in 4K with a merch link.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You sound like someone who misses bleeding fingers and cigarette ash on guitar strings.”

Jack: (with a half-smile) “I do. I miss when music was dangerous — when you’d play in an alley for ten people and feel like you were shaking the world. Now everything’s curated. Even chaos has a release schedule.”

Host: The neon sign outside flickered, casting brief flashes of pink across their faces — fragments of passion, fading and returning.

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s not the artists’ fault. The world changed. Back then, you fought the gatekeepers. Now the gates are gone — and everyone’s shouting. It’s not rebellion that’s lost, it’s focus.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. It’s spirit. You can’t mass-produce soul. You can’t algorithm rebellion. The moment you try, it stops being music and starts being noise with marketing.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t survival also art? These kids — the ones Mike Peters was talking about — they’re trying to stay alive in an industry that eats idealism for breakfast. You can’t fault them for wanting to make a living.”

Jack: (sighing) “I don’t. I fault the system that turned expression into economy. There was a time when signing a major deal was like shaking hands with the devil. Now it’s salvation. And the worst part? Nobody even knows they’re selling anymore.”

Host: The bartender turned on a small radio behind the bar. A pop song drifted through the speakers — overproduced, autotuned, soulless. The chorus repeated the same four words like a mantra for modern emptiness.

Jeeny: (listening, shaking her head) “But every generation says that, Jack. The old guard always thinks the new wave has lost the truth. Maybe that’s the cycle — maybe rebellion always sounds purer in hindsight.”

Jack: “Maybe. But you can’t deny the difference between singing ‘I Wanna Be Adored’ and singing ‘Stream My New Single.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe both are cries for love — one louder, one lonelier.”

Host: Her words hung there, the kind that changed the temperature of a room. The rain outside began again — soft but relentless, like applause for something the world had already forgotten.

Jack’s eyes softened. He looked toward the empty stage, its microphone waiting like an open confession.

Jack: “You ever wonder what would happen if those young bands stopped chasing the industry and just… played? For no one. For themselves.”

Jeeny: “Then they’d rediscover the sacred — the reason they started. But they’d also starve.”

Jack: “Art always starves first.”

Jeeny: “And yet, somehow, it always survives.”

Host: A faint hum of feedback came from the stage. Jack’s hand twitched, almost instinctively, as if an old part of him still wanted to pick up a guitar.

Jeeny noticed.

Jeeny: “You miss it.”

Jack: “Every damn day. But I got tired of shouting into a void. Nobody wants truth unless it comes with a beat they can dance to.”

Jeeny: “Then give them both.”

Jack: (laughing softly) “What, be the saint of sellouts?”

Jeeny: “No. Be the bridge. The world doesn’t need purity; it needs honesty. That’s what Mike Peters was mourning — not the loss of independence, but the loss of integrity. There’s a difference.”

Host: The bar door opened briefly, a gust of cold air sweeping in. A young musician stepped inside — guitar case in hand, eyes full of fire and fear. Jack watched him pass, and something in his expression changed — a flicker of recognition, maybe even envy.

Jeeny: (quietly) “See that? The next one to get chewed up by the system.”

Jack: “Or the next one to break it.”

Host: The young man approached the stage, unpacked his guitar, and began to tune. The first few chords were raw, shaky — but real. There was no polish, no posturing. Just sound. Honest, imperfect sound.

Jack leaned forward, his gaze softening.

Jack: “You hear that?”

Jeeny: “Yeah.”

Jack: “That’s what it used to feel like — before money, before marketing. That sound — that’s hope.”

Jeeny: “And heartbreak. The two chords every artist lives between.”

Host: The boy began to play — a song with no name, no label, no producer. Just strings, voice, and truth. The small audience barely noticed, but Jack did. His hand tapped the table softly, in rhythm with something deeper than the music — memory, maybe, or faith.

Jack: “Maybe rebellion never really died. Maybe it just got quieter.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we stopped listening long enough to hear it.”

Host: The song ended. No applause. No cameras. Just silence — sacred, unfiltered. Jack raised his glass slightly, as if to toast the boy, or maybe the echo of himself.

Jack: “To the ones who still play.”

Jeeny: (lifting her glass) “And to the ones who still believe.”

Host: The rain outside softened into mist. The neon sign flickered once more — LIVE, still missing its final “E,” still insisting on its imperfect truth.

And as the last notes of the boy’s song faded into the hum of the city, Jack and Jeeny sat quietly — two old rebels remembering that even in a world that chews up music,
somewhere, someone still plays for the joy of being alive.

Because in the end, as Mike Peters warned, the system can devour the sound —
but it can never silence the song.